


safehouse

by glim



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Domestic, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, POV Bucky Barnes, Protectiveness, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 07:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20224345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim
Summary: Bucky aches all over and his heart hurts more than any injury, but he has this to offer: a home."I know a place where we can go," he tells Tony. When he texts Steve back, he only sends a one-word reply:safehouse.





	safehouse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'hallucinations/visions.'

Minutes after they board, a hush falls over the quinjet. Beyond the tense, strained silence is the soft hum of the engine, more vibration than sound, and somewhere beneath the hum, the quiet click of control keys and flick of levers. 

Bucky tips his head back against his seat and closes his eyes, waits for the flash of nightmare guilt, then snaps his eyes open again as soon as his heart starts pounding. A few slow breaths in and out, then Bucky pushes the heels of his hands against his eyes. Pushes hard enough that all he sees are stars. Even if he could, he doesn't want to sleep here; he doesn't want the dreams creeping up along the edges of his consciousness in the wake of what happened in Sokovia. Bucky lowers his eyes so he doesn't have to meet the haunted, injured gaze of any of his teammates, but raises them when he hears footsteps approach. 

"We can't go home," Tony says. He sounds hollowed-out and hoarse and for a moment the same emptiness flickers in his eyes. "There's no home to go to. The Tower's dust, PR's already a nightmare."

Bucky nods and lowers his gaze again. His left shoulder hurts like it hasn't in years, a dull, heavy ache that throbs through the left side of his body, that reaches, phantom-like, down to his left wrist. The metal fingers on his left hand twitch a little as he stares down at them and a quiet whir sounds from deep inside the mechanism of his arm. He'll need to have Tony look at it, Bucky knows, but he pushes the thought aside. His mind is already crowded with images, his most feared memories and most memorized fears, so that if he doesn't tuck them into the corners of his mind, he knows they will overwhelm him. 

Bucky pushes all his thoughts aside, all but one, and closes his eyes against that one, golden thought. 

Almost five years ago, Iron Man pulled him out of the innermost recesses of a HYDRA base below Washington, DC. That moment is a blurry one at the back of Bucky's memories, a haze of pain and desperation, and then the kind of gratitude he could only feel once he remembered his own name. 

But there had been a moment before he could recall himself, a moment before he recognized himself and the sound of his name on his own lips. Before he knew himself he remembered something and that memory was the one good, warm thing he could hold onto. 

He walked the frozen landscape of Greenland to recover the warmth behind the memory; he walked every inch of that godforsaken world, felt himself frozen in time and space, until he was able to do what the SSR, what SHIELD and Howard Stark and Peggy Carter hadn't been able to do. 

He brought Steve Rogers home. 

Bucky has about a dozen text and voice messages on his phone waiting for him when he pulls it out. He studies them for a moment, scrolls through them twice just for the warmth and reassurance they bring. Bucky aches all over and his heart hurts more than any injury, but he has this to offer: a home. 

"I know a place where we can go," he tells Tony. When Bucky texts Steve back, he only sends a one-word reply:

_safehouse._

* * *

"Who knew the Winter Soldier kept a rural retreat in the Hudson Valley," Tony comments as he steps off the plane. 

"Nobody," Bucky says. It's not true, though. Fury knows, Peggy knows, Nat knows, Sam knows. He's only ever told the people who mattered to him and Steve. 

"I can't wait to see how you did the interior design. Are knives a theme? Did you..." Tony's voice trails off as the approaches the porch and the man standing at the top of the front steps. "That's--" 

"Did you just buy a house and get married when we weren't looking, Barnes?" Clint sounds more impressed than anything else and returns Natasha's shrug with one of his own. 

"--that's Captain America," Tony says. "Yeah, the smaller and shorter version, but that's _Cap_." 

"Barton's guess was closer," Steve replies as he walks down the steps to meet them.

Tony looks at Bucky, then at Steve, and then back at Bucky. "You _married_ Captain America." 

"He married Steve Rogers. Captain America went down into the ice seventy years ago." Steve comes to stand next to Bucky and wraps one slim, strong arm around his waist. 

He's dressed in old jeans and a white tee shirt, his blond hair shower-damp and messy, and he just looks and sounds and smells so much like home that Bucky's throat goes hot and tight. Bucky had never wanted to bring this fight home to Steve, not after the war and the seventy years of ice, not after he pulled Steve from the Valkyrie, his body laid out beneath his shield and alive only by the grace of that last ounce of protection the serum had to offer. God, he'd never wanted to dump all this in Steve's lap again, but Bucky can't imagine being anywhere else right now when he's so heartsick; he wants to be with Steve, he wants to be _home_. 

Steve tightens his arm around Bucky and looks up at him with warm concern in his eyes. "Come inside and wash up. Then we can start dinner for everyone, all right? I chopped veggies for you." 

Thankfully, Bucky laughs before a sob can slip from the back of his throat. He hasn't been home in weeks, the world is close to falling apart, and yet Steve's still here, telling him to go wash his hands and cook dinner. 

"All right," Bucky murmurs. He leans in to brush a quick kiss over Steve's lips before walking up the steps to the house. 

"What about kids?" Clint asks. "You guys have any kids yet?" 

"Not unless you count the puppies," Bucky replies. 

"He counts the puppies," Nat says. She leans in to hug Bucky, then hugs him again after sharing a quick, knowing smile with Steve. 

Bucky ushers Tony, Bruce, Clint, Nat, and Thor into the house, tells them where to find the bathrooms and to ignore the excited dogs and the piles of art supplies. Their three dogs rush onto the porch to meet him before Bucky can close the screen door and the rightness, the normalcy of it crowds Bucky's heart. Both of the little dogs press up around his ankles and the big one nuzzles at his left hand, wanting Bucky to take him for a walk already. 

When it's just the two of them on the porch, Bucky leans in to kiss Steve again, deeper this time, one hand cradling the back of Steve's head. He sinks into the kiss, closing his eyes and pushing everything from his mind that isn't this moment, that isn't Steve's warm, strong arms around his waist, that isn't Steve kissing him over and over again. "Stevie..." 

"You're home," Steve breathes into the kisses, then exhales on a shaking sigh. "Thank god you're home, Buck." He holds Bucky tight and close, rests his forehead against Bucky's, and brushes a soft kiss against his lips. "Can you at least stay tonight?" 

"At least tonight." Bucky holds himself as close as he can to Steve before they go back into the house. He's home, he's safe, and he's going to cook for his friends. "So, what am I making for dinner?"

* * *

Beef stew, bread, and salad are what Steve's pulled together for their impromptu dinner party. After washing up and pulling his hair back, Bucky discovers the radio on in the kitchen, the counters covered in meal prep, and Steve reading a recipe on his phone as his glasses slide down his nose. 

Warmth swells right through Bucky's chest. God, he was gone _too long_ this time, one mission after another. Even the dogs following him everywhere and wanting to wrap themselves up around him warms his heart. 

"Let me take over," he says. 

Steve looks up at him, smiles, and tucks his phone into his back pocket. "You don't need a recipe." 

And he doesn't. Bucky puts the stew together the way Steve likes it, with lots of potatoes and carrots, without even having to pause and think. For the half hour it takes them to get everything together and ready to cook, Bucky focuses on the repetition and method. All his spare thoughts are for Steve--for the way he pads barefoot around their kitchen, for the way he hums, soft and low, along with the songs on the radio, for the way he touches Bucky's elbow when he reaches across him for something in one of the cabinets. 

The meals they cook for each other during the rougher times are nearly the same as the ones they cooked nearly seventy years ago. Better and more ingredients, sure, but the method is the same, the way they move around each other and the way they silently divide up the tasks. 

Bucky drapes a dish towel over Steve's shoulder after he finishes wiping down the counters and presses a kiss to the top of Steve's head. 

"I should shower..." He nuzzles Steve's hair and almost, _almost_ gives into the urge to wrap his arms around Steve's waist and keep on kissing him. 

But voices sound from the staircase and front porch simultaneously, and when Bucky turns around, Fury's following Tony in from the porch as the rest of his teammates appear from the den or upstairs. 

"Hope you've got an extra place setting," Tony comments, nodding over his shoulder at Fury. 

"We're good. We said we'd do the dinner party thing someday," Steve comments. He signals for the dogs to come to him instead of trying to make a half-dozen new friends, then nods towards the door. "I can take them--" 

"--no, stay, please," Bucky murmurs. He rests his hand on Steve's back, as much to persuade Steve to stay as to ground himself, and feels himself relax when Steve nods. 

He respects and trusts both Fury and his teammates, and god, does he care for this team that's adopted him as one of their own, as one of their family. Bucky can't discount that and he'll never stop being grateful for them. 

His hands still want to shake when he thinks of the vision he had in Sokovia, though, and if he can have his husband close to him as they hash out mission plans, Bucky's not going to turn that chance down. He slides one arm around Steve's waist, one finger through the belt loop of his jeans, and feels the rhythm of his breathing settle into the same pattern as Steve's. 

Bucky knows he has to go back to Sokovia; he doesn't need a debrief meeting to tell him the job isn't done yet. He'll take that HYDRA base apart with his bare hands to make sure nobody else has to suffer. 

But knows this, too: he needs to feel the rise and fall of Steve's breath, the warmth of his skin next to Bucky's side, the shape of his hip beneath the curve of Bucky's left palm. He needs to remind himself that after everything is said and done, he'll be able to come back home again. 

By the time the kitchen debrief session is over, dinner's ready. They eat in the living room on sofas and chairs and pillows. Steve curls up next to Bucky on the floor, leaning in against him and brushing a quick kiss over his shoulder when he reminds Bucky to eat. 

"I can help with the dishes," Natasha volunteers when they're done eating. "Give Barnes some time to rest up." 

"I don't mind," Bucky says. 

Steve gives him a nudge in the ribcage with one pointy elbow. "Actually, he's very grateful, Nat. He'd love to let you help with dishes since he cooked dinner." 

"C'mon, big guy, let them do the dishes and I'll take a look at that arm." Tony offers Bucky a hand up off the floor, then rests his hand at Bucky's left elbow as they head to the kitchen table. 

"Yeah, fine, just don't... pull it apart or anything. I still need to use it." Bucky rubs at his left shoulder before letting Tony get closer, then looks up when Steve's hand rests atop his own. 

"D'you guys want coffee? Tea? Anything?" He frowns at the way Bucky keeps rubbing his shoulder, but doesn't fuss when they both shake their heads. He brings the tool kit Bucky uses to do minor work on his own arm, watches Tony work for a few minutes, then heads back to help Nat load the dishwasher. 

The dogs settle at Bucky's feet again, rivaling Steve for how protective they are tonight, and Bucky leans back to let Tony prod at his arm.

* * *

Bucky's not sure if he's achy because he's exhausted or vice versa, but by the time he gets to shower, he doesn't even care anymore. His left shoulder's sore and his back is sore and some small place, buried deep inside him, holds the kind of nightmare soreness he knows he'll never be able to fully ease. 

He can still see it when he closes his eyes, can still feel how it rummaged around in that sore place in his chest: the vision the girl had sent him in Sokokia. How cold he'd felt, how he'd tasted snow and blood on his tongue, and how he'd held Steve in his arms and had to watch him die a dozen different ways.

_The year he'd had pneumonia so bad even his Ma cried when Steve couldn't sleep; the time he'd got himself beat up so bad Bucky hurt just looking at the bruises; the war, oh god, the war, and Bucky swears he watched Steve die five times over in five seconds and every time Bucky reached for him he slipped away and slipped away into the blood red haze; waking up next to Steve and finding him still and his lips ice cold... _

A hoarse sob breaks out before Bucky has a chance to chase it away. He swallows back the next one, learning against the tile wall, and wills himself to stop. He'd seen Steve die, he'd seen his body frozen cold and small, and no amount of warmth had been enough to bring him back. 

Those images hadn't felt like a dream, but some strange collusion of prophecy and fear, a vision pulled from the deepest part of his soul, worse than any nightmare his own mind could conjure up. . 

God, if he lost Steve, if they lost each other again.... 

"Buck? Honey?" Steve says, outside the sound of the pounding water. "Everything all right?" 

For a moment, for the barest flicker of a moment, Bucky thinks his voice isn't real, that he can't be hearing it again. The sob rises in his throat again, but before he can push it back or let it out, Steve's arms wrap around his waist. 

"Hey... it's okay." Body pressing up close to Bucky from behind, Steve holds him tighter and kisses the back of Bucky's shoulder. "You had a long day. You had the _longest_ day." 

Bucky nods, coughs at the tightness in his throat, and tries to relax into the way Steve holds him and kisses him. The water spills around them and the room's already full of steam, and all Bucky wants in that moment is to stay in this warm, safe, secret space. Here, Steve's safe, he's warm and safe, and his arms wrap around Bucky as if he'd never let him go. 

When Bucky shudders against the memories, Steve holds him that much tighter, then murmurs kisses against his back. There's some term of endearment in there, Bucky recognizes the shape of the word against his skin, and he lets him fall into the sensation. Steve's lips on his skin, hot water thrumming against their bodies, both of those touches melting away that last achy, sore, cold place inside Bucky. 

"Let me help?" Steve asks. 

"Stevie," Bucky says, the word hoarse with need, and then, "yeah, please." 

Steve presses a soft kiss between Bucky's shoulder blades. They linger in that touch for a few moments, then Steve reaches for the herbal-mint shower gel they both like the best. In a few minutes, the bathroom is full of mint-scented steam and the scent means Steve and home to Bucky as much as anything does. 

Sinking into this scent is as easy as sinking into Steve's touch and into so many memories of their past. They had a soap or salve back in the 30s with the same scent, cool and soothing, and instead of with a pang, Bucky recalls it with fondness. He'd rub it on Steve's chest when he was too sick to push Bucky away and insist he was fine, that the wheezing would disappear on its own. Steve would do the same for him when he was sick or his muscles were sore, but Bucky had always wanted Steve's hands on him. He still kneels on their bed to rub Bucky's back and shoulders when he's sore; he still sprawls out next to Bucky to rub his chest when he's sick. 

Bucky can melt into this, too, then, the way they pass soap-slick hands over each other's bodies, they way Steve's eyes flutter shut when Bucky lathers shampoo through his hair, the way they steal kisses and touches from each other and the way Bucky's heart still thrills a little each time. 

As he rinses off his hair under the hot water, Steve's hand drifts to Bucky's hip to stroke slow and steady, comforting, just skirting the edge of arousal. His fingers trace the curve of Bucky's hip to the curve of his stomach; his palm rests there and he kisses the back of Bucky's shoulder again, right where the metal meets skin. 

Steve says Bucky's name against his skin, his whole name, in a voice he rarely uses and that carries in its low timbre every tenderness, and every term of endearment between them. He kisses Bucky again and again, until the sensation is almost too gentle and too delicate, and Bucky has to turn in Steve's arms to face him. 

His hair is water-drenched and dark blond, sending small rivulets down the side of his nose and the angle of his jaw. Bucky pushes Steve's hair back off his face and traces the rise of his cheekbones, then dips to press a few kisses to his lips. 

Once he starts touching Steve, he can't stop. He keeps on tracing feather-light patterns over Steve's face, pausing when Steve leans in to kiss his fingers, then skimming them down to Steve's shoulders. 

God, his stupid pointy shoulders, that Bucky had to get used to resting his head on all over again. He's stronger now than he was seventy years ago, stronger and healthier, but his shoulders are still so fucking pointy and his eyes so blue and his hands--

Bucky brings Steve hands up to his lips to kiss the knuckles, then the tips of his fingers, even when Steve lets out a soft laugh. 

"Buck..." Steve brushes his thumb over Bucky's lower lip.

Bucky kisses his fingers again and he knows that he could spend the rest of the evening just kissing and touching Steve, until all he knew was the taste and feel of Steve's skin, the feel of Steve's mouth moving over his own skin. 

Bucky starts to say something, then just lets his mouth murmur 'sweetheart' against Steve's touch. A small sound comes from the back of his Steve's throat, hoarse and needy, and he presses the length of his body up against Bucky's. 

From there, the touching gets rushed and more frantic, a race against the urgency that rises up inside and the way cooling off of the water in the shower. But they've always known exactly how to touch each other, how to move from soft, lingering touches to more desperate ones. Bucky's always known the moment when he can tip Steve from warm, coiling desire into a rushed, breathless need for more. 

He knows that moment because he can taste it at the back of his own throat, can feel the tight heat threatening to spill out from inside him, and can hear it in the rush of his own blood and breath.

* * *

Bucky's propped up on his left arm in bed, looking down at Steve and smoothing down his slightly damp, rumpled hair. Damp, dark blond strands fall into Steve's face no matter how many times Bucky strokes it back but he can't stop himself from trying a few more times.

"Do they sleep with you every night?" he asks, then glances at their three dogs snuggled up with them on the bed. One of the little ones has wriggled her way between them and is still trying to tuck herself closer to Bucky. 

"It's cold at night," Steve says with a tiny frown-crease between his eyebrows. "I didn't mean--" 

"Hey... I know." Leaning down, Bucky kisses the frown from Steve's forehead. "They keep you warm..." 

Steve nestles himself in closer to Bucky, too, and pulls Bucky down onto the pillows to face him. He tucks Bucky's hair behind his ear, then strokes the side of his face, smiling in that soft, sappy way he has. 

"I want to go back with you," Steve says. 

A moment passes before Bucky realize what's Steve's telling him. When he does realize, he rests his hand over Steve's and strokes his thumb over Steve's knuckles. 

"You know what I'm going to say." Bucky stokes Steve's knuckles again and thinks about how the calluses on his hands are, once more, from pencils and paintbrushes. 

"Yeah, I do." Steve moves in a little closer to Bucky under the blankets and their knees brush. 

Pencils and paintbrushes, evening spent curled up with their puppies, Steve's face, warm and smiling when he sees Bucky walking towards their porch. _God._ If he could just keep Steve here all the time, if he could just keep him safe forever and ever.... 

Two years, almost three, was more than Bucky could've hoped for, really. Cap's shield rests in their den, propped up on a bookshelf, and Bucky can't recall how many times Steve's tried to get him to take it. 

Steve's always been Steve, and Bucky's always loved him for his bravery, his generosity, his stubbornness, loved him more than anything else in this world. 

"I don't want you to go back to Sokovia with me." Bucky tightens his hand over Steve's. "But when I come home--" 

"--when you come home," Steve says and it's a promise on his lips, one that they're both meant to keep. 

"When I come home. Whatever you decide, you know I'll follow you, Steve." Bucky tightens his hand over Steve's and nudges his knee against Steve's. 

"It's not like that anymore. I just want to be with you. I just... I know you like coming home here and I don't want to take that from you. But if I could help, somehow, from here or ... or anywhere." 

"Anywhere? The Tower's not safe... There might not be anywhere to go back to after this mission." Bucky's throat tightens a little and his voice goes rough as he seeks out Steve's warmth. 

"I know. I saw the news." Steve leans in to rest his forehead against Bucky's. "Anywhere. And if you decide that you're done, that you want to come home, then I'll stay here, too." 

Steve leans in to kiss Bucky and stays close even as he ends the kiss. His hair falls into his face again and he smiles when Bucky reaches up to stroke it back yet again, too. 

"What if I just come home? When all this is done in Sokovia... when I do what I can to make sure nobody else gets treated--" Bucky pauses, feels that hazy panic at the edge of his senses, and buries himself in the warmth and safety of their bed. 

"Then just come home. Come home and let me take care of you. You can get me another puppy," Steve adds and brushes another kiss against Bucky's lips. "And you can fix up that old bike in the garage." 

"Four dogs are too many dogs. Also you just want to ride that piece of junk motorcycle." Bucky slips his fingers through Steve's hair once more then cups Steve's face against his palm. When he looks into Steve's eyes, a quiet life doesn't seem so far away. 

"No, it's not too many for a house this big, and maybe I do." 

"Hmm..." 

"Let's get some rest," Steve says after a few moments and turns to press one more kiss to the palm of Bucky's hand. He waits for Bucky to nod in agreement, then shuts off the bedside light and snuggles in close. 

Bucky thinks he'll be awake trying to work out the Sokovia mission, but he's warm and sleepy next to Steve and he drifts off before he realizes it.

* * *

"Here." Steve pushes a cup of coffee into Bucky's hands. "Drink." 

"You're hardly awake. How did you manage coffee?" Bucky looks at Steve, at the mug, and then back at Steve.

His hair's sticking up in the back, his eyes are still bleary, and the tee shirt he has on is Bucky's, so it's at least two sizes too big and has a little hole in the collar, on the left side. Which is weirdly endearing and Bucky has to reach over and touch the collar of the shirt, then brush his finger against Steve's jaw. 

"The coffee maker makes the coffee, Buck. Welcome to the modern world." Steve nuzzles against the touch, though, and closes his eyes for a second. After he opens them, he lets out a sigh, nods, and squares his shoulders. "Are you going to drink that before you leave or can I have it?"

Bucky takes a sip from the coffee, then hands the mug back to Steve so he can drink it. It's his mug, after all, the blue and white striped one Bucky likes to give him when he's home to bring Steve coffee in bed. He takes the mug back when Steve offers it to him and lets himself have a few wistful moments. 

"You're going to DC first?" Steve asks.

"Yeah, to pick up Sam, then see what we need to do." Bucky puts the mug on the counter when he's finished drinking, then lets himself have another moment to put his arms around Steve. "And you're going to go back to bed?" 

Steve shakes his head. "I won't sleep." 

"I know." Bucky has a minute, maybe, before he has to leave, and he wants to spend every precious second in his quiet kitchen, he wants to save up every moment until he can come home again. "Stevie..." 

"Just stay safe, all right? Take care of yourself and stay safe." Steve cuts Bucky off before he can say anything and he rests his hand on Bucky's chest. The sound of voices and footsteps come from throughout the house and Steve gives Bucky a little nudge.

Steve glances towards the bookshelf and the faint glimmer of red and blue in the pre-dawn light, then catches Bucky's gaze and gives a little nod. 

Maybe next time. Maybe he'll hold it once and pass it on. 

"I'll be home soon," Bucky says and steps out into the cool grey morning.


End file.
